Little Black Book
by cheesynoodle
Summary: Of all the things Vincent had carried on his person, the small black book resting in his suit jacket’s pocket would be the most out of character. Vincent-centric, with Yuffie. one-shot


**Little Black Book**

Of all the things Vincent had carried on his person, the small black book resting in his suit jacket's pocket would be the most out of character. Even back then, perhaps past even the ShinRa Turk training and well into childhood, he had been a man of few words. He had always been straight and to the point, perhaps even impatient in his younger years. But the silence only grew as he did, and the straightforward points were made murkier and more cryptic as time wore on.

So it was safe to say that back then, beside a gun and extra clip, his PHS and his black wallet with ID, this small black book was the most interesting thing on him, and quite unlike him.

Its purpose was what made it unique. The original reason he had picked it up off a bookstore's shelf in Midgar was to keep record of certain things, as well as reminders and memos about certain dates. Suffice to say that it was purely on practical business terms did he purchase the leather-bound book for a hundred gil.

The first thing he wrote after his name on the inside front cover, was incidentally Dr. Crescent's birthday, from a jibe about him not remembering it that day. He'd apologies profusely (he had already had the first few tinges of puppy love, then) while she had laughed it off. But he had stubbornly remembered to write it down in that little black book of his.

The same day he had been called down to kill one of their experiments-gone-wrong; a Nible wolf turned crazy from whatever they had done to it. It had been tearing at its own flesh, knowing on its own wrist when Vincent had looked into the blood soaked cage. It had leaped at him in a frenzied rage despite the thick irons bars, jaws gaping, and spittle flying. It had been a wonder that it wasn't already dead from the blood pooled on the surrounding floor and splattered on the walls.

When Vincent had shot the poor beast, he had learned quite a few new things, which he eventually wrote down in the book. The first was that he didn't like dogs. He had never had one as a pet when he was a child (instead his father had taken care of a skinny, eternally-grumpy feline by the name of Rosemerta), and had never felt any real want, love, or particular camaraderie to man's best friend. After all, they always caused unwanted noise and annoyance on missions.

The second was that Lucrecia hated the sight of death. She had brushed by him on his way down the stairs, giving him a hard glare as if for agreeing to do it, even though she had been the one to ask him. He would later reflect on this as perhaps a reason she refused to let him die. Though he gave no affirmative conclusion on that topic, for several reasons.

The third thing he noticed had been Hojo, who had watched the entire thing with barely concealed glee, perhaps at the vicious _bang_ followed by the spray of blood on the wall behind, or at the instant cease of incessant barking and growling. But Vincent had secretly thought of it as excitement to see the outcome of this little 'test' he had given Vincent.

He had released a horrible grin at the end, when Vincent had shot, though from what conclusion he couldn't be sure; did he like the fact that the Turk had shown absolutely no emotion on his mask-like face? Or had he suspected the inner turmoil inside him, which he had resolutely quelled?

In any case, Vincent had started to learn that Hojo was somehow always satisfied or pleased in some way.

What came of this was the second thing written in ink: the creature's date of death. The Turk had figured that the creature, slewn by himself, should have something other than a pit for its body to be thrown in, and a slash put through its number on the scientists' files. So he wrote its time of passing in his neat, precise writing, along with a little phrase he remembered the priest saying at his father's funeral.

And that was that.

Later, he would reflect in that uncanny way of his, how a birth date and death date started that little black book, as did so many other things in his life. After all, that was the nature of things, so it was aptly fitting that first page. But somehow the centimeters separating the two seemed to short, and the two were too close.

He continued to write things down, like dates of the Turk tests and exams, as well as his scores (damn near perfect in shooting and physical mission procedures, as well as other areas). He also wrote down mission dates, names, and briefings, for those that he did on the side to protecting the scientists.

Presently, he began marking down different things, like what he had heard the others saying (the inhabitants of the ShinRa mansion, Turks, scientists, and personnel alike), or what noise he had heard coming from the labs. The notes grew to range from what new books they had published on the new and exciting subject of outer space (for they didn't get a whole lot of news way of in the mountains), to which flowers Dr. Crescent liked most.

One day, when he was bored and slightly restless, he had sat down at the piano near the botany room, and lifted up the case to test a key. The note had sung true, miraculously in tune despite misuse, reverberating around the room. The years of lessons at old Mrs. Shang's house when he was young slowly came back to Vincent as he fiddled with notes, tunes, and rhythms. Soon he had figured out a familiar lament he used to play, and wrote down the score in the small book.

As it became clear that there really was no one to talk to in complete honesty–for in that house nothing said or done was missed, and where confiding in people was not at all a smart thing to do, despite how trustworthy they may seem–he began writing more thoughtfully in his book. During the downtime between excursions into town with Lucrecia, as well as mealtimes and the occaisional uprise from enraged citizens, he found that writing down his increasingly chaotic and dangerous thoughts was both therapeutic and time-consuming.

Soon dates and times and notes became fewer and far in between these entries, as his life from before gave way to the happenings of the ShinRa mansion, which became more and more mysterious and dangerous each day. The road was straightening out for Vincent, finally allowing him to see where it was going. His end was coming, the end to his peaceful if not somewhat splattered with blood record, his life in the past. With it his thoughts became scrambled and skewed, his legible writing becoming a desperate, forced scrawl, until finally, there was one last entry just a few shaky, illegible lines, before black white pages, one after another, filled the small black book.

He found it again, after all those years, when him and Yuffie were going through the ShinRa mansion a final time, to destroy all remaining Deep Ground artifacts. They had worked from the basement up, closing off the doors to the sewers and the levels below the basement. Then they had removed all the computers and other machinery, both from the original people in the mansion, as well as the more recent ones. Along with these went the upper floor's cracked and destroyed furniture, which they reasoned might as well go–they were mere scraps of the originals, ghosts clinging on.

And so they finally reached the attic. They found boxes and boxes of different things, when they climbed the ladder. And upon stepping over brittle and cracking floorboards found them filled with file folders, books, lamps, paintings, and a variety of odds and ends. Vincent had assumed much of it, at least in files, had been brought up by Deep Ground soldiers, though he could guess much had already been destroyed instead. They had thought it would be easy to simply go through and collect the Deep Ground things for garbage, and ShinRa files for adding to the system at WRO. But soon they were up to their heads in things to sort out, and while they hunkered down to scan and judge countless files; Yuffie had found something more interesting.

"Whoa. Hey Vince, check it out–I got 'cher diary!" she teased, waving a familiar black book about. "It even has your name in it!"

Vincent's eyes widened slightly as he realized she did indeed. After all these years, just when he was finally loosening his memory's tight grip on him, he found the very thing that encased so many in writing.

He looked up from his thoughtful phase to find her slowly opening it, eyes wide and staring at him comically, as if looking for his reaction. He guessed he was supposed to be squealing something about privacy, or perhaps droning on about all those memories. But strangely a wave of tire swept through him, and he could not bring himself to care what she did with it. After all, it's not like she didn't already know what had happened to him. Those questions had been answered over the many years they had traveled together.

But suddenly the ninja dropped her stance, letting the book in her hands fall to her lap. A look filled her eyes as if she was considering something, and instead she asked, gesturing to the book, "May I?"

The request was odd–no the fact that she had asked at all was odd. Perhaps a little startled, the ex-Turk nodded, his face still impassive, and picked up another box to start.

It was quite quiet for a long time, other than the sounds of rustling paper and occasionally footsteps as Vincent rose to get another box. As for her part, Yuffie stayed silent between turning pages, and though he knew all her reactions and emotions would be displayed clearly right there on her face, he didn't look. Vincent didn't want to see any looks of pity or horror she had for him.

When she finally finished, however, he did not expect the question that leaked from her lips. "Are you going to finish it?"

He turned around to see her standing with an arm outstretched, holding out the book. Upon seeing his slight change in emotions from blank to slightly confused, she elaborated, "There are still blank pages. Are you going to finish it?" she asked again.

He looked into her innocent, yet oddly serious eyes, and considered his answer. Everyone was telling him to let go of his past, were they not? To move on, to live for the present and future. But wasn't the future just an extension of the past? Would it be right to write in it, or was it better throw it away? He couldn't just throw his past out the window–it made him. What would be left? Somehow he got the feeling he was giving chi choice too much credit.

"I don't know," he finally said.

Yuffie didn't comment, but instead handed the tiny book back to him. He grasped the familiar, worn leather, and briefly remembered a time when it was the only thing he could trust or really talk to at all, before slipping it into one of his pockets.

It wasn't until a few hours later, when he was alone, sitting under a tree outside, breathing the fresh, cool evening air, did he open the book, and start writing.

Wrote this a looooong time ago. Reread it a while ago and thought it wasn't half bad. Needed something for me to get into typing. Just a little thing, drabble, really. Obviously affected by this one author…can't remember their penname, but they wrote a story named " M e t r o n o m e". Should be in my favorites list–I recommend it. Really good.

Anyways…hope you enjoyed it, at least a little.

Cheers,

cheesynoodle


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